Full Moon
by Realms of Destiny
Summary: Year 1777-1778. Connor thought the world was nothing more than black and white. His meeting with a woman of the Moors proves that the world is, however, speckled with many shades of grey. As powerful Templars stalk the streets of Boston, Connor begins to question his own motives in this war. Slight Connor/OC
1. Canine Meeting

**I just can't wait anymore so I decided to write my own take on a AC main guy/OC. I can't do Altair because I like Maria too much and Ezio/Christina will always be my fav AC couple despite their tragic death. Since Connor hasn't been given his lady, I too am another fangirl who has created one for him, teehee! But beware, I am an angst supporter so...*evil grin*. Anyways, here is the prologue. Please enjoy!**

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**Year: 1877. Outskirts of Mohawk Valley.**

A young apprentice sauntered into the woods. The starry skies were engulfed by the shadows of tall trees, their bushy leaves stirring gently at the occasional whispers of wind. The apprentice's face was covered by the shadows of night and the hood that hid his physiognomy from his surroundings. Eyes that mirrored the azure skies searched through the trail of flora, some of the vegetations would glimmer like silver in the intermittent moonlight.

The apprentice's ears perked at the sound of cackling flames. Rays of scarlet and marmalade caressed the darkness not too far from where he stood. As silent as the stars and as swift as a predator, the apprentice made his way to the aurora of flaming light. The cackle of flames raised in crescendo as he edged nearer until he could almost feel the warmth of fire on his skin. Pushing large bushes aside, he was greeted with the sight of an elderly Native woman sitting opposite a manmade fire. Lying obediently beside her was a wolf. The woman ran her wrinkled hands over the canine's mane of fur, their eyes glowing like the stars above.

The apprentice was intrigued, not because an old person was at a possible risk of becoming the wolf's next meal but due to the fact that he encountered a Native American who still practiced her culture submissively. The woman's eyes were unlike those of other natives, they were cracked silver like the moon that was lent its light from the sun.

"Come hither child."

The apprentice flinched and his eyes met the silver of the wolf and the Native. The wolf's ears were perked up, it's tongue curled lazily outside its mouth as it yawned. Cautiously, the apprentice approached the couple and sat across from them. He watched the dancing shadows of the fire shifting across the many wrinkles on the woman's face. Her lips were thin, curled into a kind smile. She blew at the smoke that originated from the fire and later dispersed into the chilly night air.

"It is nice to meet you, Jett," she spoke, her voice soft like spring waters.

Jett's body perked up and his muscles tensed. He narrowed his eyes at the woman.

"How do you know my name?" he replied, his tone shaky with apprehension.

"The spirits told me you were approaching. My name is Mahigan and this is my companion, Sinapu," the woman chuckled.

Jett's eyes swivelled to those of the wolf. Sinapu stared back, its silver irises bleeding orange and yellow when they caught the colours of the flames.

"I do not understand," the apprentice whispered, his instincts drowning in doubt.

"Fear not child, I am but a humble old woman. I am neither with the Templars that are chasing you nor the Assassins that took you under their wing."

Her words were genuine like the bond of love between two doves. Jett eased at this knowledge but this did not explain why Mahigan and her pet wolf were out in the middle of the forest when it was nearing midnight. He asked her this and she chuckled again.

"I was just remembering the tales of Ratonhnhaké:ton that my grandmother had often talked about," Mahigan explained and Jett realized the woman's features soften despite the many trenches of wrinkles.

A silence impeded and Jett recalled his own memories of Ratonhnhaké:ton. The man was considered a legend among Assassins in the USA due to his outstanding ethical reasoning. To Jett, Ratonhnhaké:ton was no more than another blot in the book of history. He didn't care much about the man as much as his comrades. It puzzled him as to why Ratonhnhaké:ton would side with the Continental Army when his fellow Mohawks were strongly against a free America. It was confusing and didn't explain the man's motives at his time.

"Forgive me Mahigan but I notice that you spoke very fondly of Ratonhnhaké:ton. Do the Native Americans not hate him?" Jett asked curiously.

"Why would we?" Mahigan reached into a pouch strapped around her bear-skin belt and threw a handful of soot into the flames.

The fire suddenly bloomed like a flower in spring and Jett fell back as the smoke that was breathed from the flames took the shape of an Assassin crouching on a hilltop with a clear American flag in the background. The image dissipated in a huff of the breeze.

"A man cannot be measured by his allegiance but by the reasons that led him throughout his life," Mahigan said, her voice now firm.

"But that does not explain a man's worth. Most men of Assassins and Templars search for revenge. Their reasons are born from hate and sorrow but their murders can't be justified as reasonable," Jett challenged, regaining his balance.

Mahigan smiled at him.

"For one so young you are wise but time is wiser, Jett. Let me take you back nearly hundred years," she said, reaching into her pouch again.

She tossed more soot into the fire until the smoke parted like curtains, revealing a scenic bubble. It was as if a mini film had appeared before him and he was staring at the actors within like an audience.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton was not, as his name suggested, a life scratcher. He was but a man. Let me tell you of his encounter with a woman of the Moors, one that inserted qualms into his motives. This woman changed his views on war, liberty and what he strove for. The outcome…Well, Jett, that is for you to decide."

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	2. The Wolf and the Doe

**A/N: And Connor as well as my OC make their first appearance here. This story is NOT focused on my OC whatsoever. Connor will be the main protagonist here. The main plot of the story will unfold in the next few chapters. Anyways, thanks to everyone who reviewed in the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy this. :) p.S. what do you think of Connor's personality?**

**Disclaimer: Assassin's Creed 3 doesn't belong to me. :'( Or else Cristina wouldn't have died and Ezio would have married her!**

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**Year: 20****th**** December 1777. New York**

Connor Kenway glided from one branch to another as if a pair of invisible wings suspended beneath him. His breath fogged in the frigid air. He was careful not to fall in the ocean of snow beneath him lest he attracted any Templars. He paused to catch his breath and climbed to the top of a tall tree. From there, he perched like an eagle and took in his surroundings.

The sun was emerging from behind the horizon like a golden wishing star. The skies were coated with shades of soft pinks and lilac that reflected off the snowy blankets of New York. There was no sign of vegetation and the sparse plants that had managed to survive in the frosty wind were hidden behind a layer of crystal. The ice above frozen lakes, and the icicles that dangled like diamonds beneath branches, hissed in the winter stillness. A gentle wind whipped at Connor's clothes as well as shifting the snowy dunes beneath him. It wasn't too soon until a light shower of snowflakes rained upon the landscape, sparkling like jewels sent by the great spirits that watched over the land. Once Connor was satisfied that he etched this scenery into his mind, he took off once again like the North Wind that shook the bare treetops.

He was assigned a mission by George Washington to watch after a group of Moors that were being received by a rebel town near the harbour this morning. Some of Washington's men were already there to protect the ethnic group from any loyalist but Connor's intellectual abilities were needed as a precaution. The half-Native Assassin had never heard of Moors before. All he knew were that they came from the continent of the slaves, though people described them to be much different looking than local Negroes. Morocco, the land of the Moors, wanted to show its approval of an independent American state. So, a noble of the Moroccan court, Ya'coob Al-Alami was to prepare an official speech of Morocco's approval to the freedom fighters of America.

The outskirts of a town emerged into view. Connor finally jumped from the treetops. He landed softly on the snow as if he weighed no more than a bird's feather. Two bulky guards in blue were guarding the entrance of the town, each holding a large gun. Their eyes narrowed when the Assassin approached them, the grip on their weapons tightened and their lips curved into a grimace. Connor pulled out a letter that Washington had given to him the day before, handing it to the guards. The older one snatched the parchment of paper and read it quietly. He chewed on his bottom lip before handing the letter to his partner.

"This is from General Washington but why would he trust this Native?" one of them whispered sceptically.

"We have to trust the general's judgement," his companion hissed, while rubbing his bright red nose.

They parted from the entrance, nodding their approval to enter.

"Just one word, Native, if we catch any funny business from you…You're in deep trouble," they warned as he made his way into the little town.

Inside was a small village that bustled about with busy people despite the freezing weather. Boys with shovels cleaned the snow and ice away from the path while women clustered in the markets that have stolen food from the loyalists. Their heads were covered in shawls and bonnets with faded colours. A large house nearby reeked of blood and sickness. Connor heard the screams of wounded men from inside. They must have been soldiers that were hurt in battle. He continued to walk through the crowds of foreign people, their expressions changing to doubt and terror upon seeing him. He even had to dodge a few balls of hardened snow that the white kids tossed.

A little boy walked over, tugging at the red sash that was tied around the Assassin's waist.

"Hey Mister, shouldn't you be dead? My papa told me the Red Indians are evil," he asked meekly.

Connor resisted the urge to sigh. The majority of the Natives were known to side with the loyalists and they had raided more than enough towns in revenge of the land that was stolen from them by the colonists. His dark eyes swivelled to the blue of the boy. The latter grinned broadly, revealing missing lower front teeth. The Assassin knelt on one knee until he was at eye-level with the boy.

"Not all of us are evil, I assure you," he said, grinning slightly.

The boy's brows furrowed and he sucked his thumb in deep muse. He beckoned Connor with one hand to lend an ear.

"Then are you a good spirit?" he whispered into the half-Native's ear who chuckled before standing back to his full height. The boy cowered away when the Assassin's shadow fell upon him.

"Perhaps you may think of me as a spirit who wants to protect the innocent."

"_Oh_, I see…Then what is your name?"

When Connor told the boy his European name, the latter almost jumped in joy.

"That's also my big brother's name!" the boy gasped, clapping his hands in excitement.

His sapphire eyes glittered with pure happiness but he suddenly halted in place, staring at his leather shoes. A toe protruded from one boot.

"Only…My big brother is in heaven now. He died in battle, you know?"

Connor shifted uncomfortably. He understood what it was like to lose someone close. A familiar, dull pain formed in his heart before he focused on ignoring it. Now wasn't the time to dwell on the past. Instantly, the boy hugged the Assassin tightly, baffling the young man.

"James!" a shrill voice rang out.

The boy jumped in his spot in terror before running towards the origin of the voice. Thin arms wrapped protectively around James' fragile body and blues eyes glared at Connor. The woman pinched James' ear and ordered the boy to return to his tent before returning her hostile glare to the Assassin. She lifted her chin high; the sharpness of her features indicated her haughty nature.

"Do not talk to my son, you savage!" the woman screamed.

A few people stopped in their tracks and stared at the oncoming commotion. Connor, knowing better what to do, bowed politely. Whispers spread among the crowd like the ripples in a pool caused by the fall of a stone. Some men were reaching for their pistols lest the 'savage' should decide to surprise them with an attack.

"I am sorry for the loss of your older son," the half-Native said gently before moving onwards towards the harbour.

"_What_? What did you just _say_ to me, you savage? He was killed by one of your kind! Nothing can bring him back! _Nothing_!" the disarrayed woman's voice rang into his ears until it broke into a poignant sobs.

The harbour ahead was frozen with ice that stretched up to the horizon. Connor wondered how the Moors were able to drive their ship across such hazardous conditions without being swallowed by the frigid ocean. A group of soldiers in blue were waiting beside a rather small vessel that had raised a red flag with a green star in the middle. It was not a flag Connor had seen before. He treaded closer to the group, as silent as the ice in the bay. One of the soldiers watched over his shoulders, his horse swished its tail and huffed white vapour into the air. He swiftly spun around to face the Assassin, opening his arms warmly with a smile.

"You must be General Washington's friend he sent to escort us. My name is Jean-Baptiste," the soldier grinned, his clear green eyes sparkling brightly despite the winter gloom.

Connor was intrigued that Washington considered him a friend. Ever since the defeat of John Burgoyne at the battle of Saratoga, their acquaintance grew closer and Washington was someone he trusted more than anyone else. He was almost a father figure, one that Connor admired greatly.

"Pleasure to meet you, I am Connor," the Assassin replied, shaking hands with the presumable French soldier.

Jean-Baptiste whistled at his comrades who instantly dispatched a horse for the half-Native to settle on.

"An Assassin, huh?" the Frenchman whispered to Connor surreptitiously.

Connor stared at him, observing the expression of the soldier's face as if to peel away his skin and evaluate his soul. Was this man trustable? How did he know the Assassins? His questions were answered when he saw the triangle symbol on Jean-Baptiste's gun. The soldier winked at him as if he put together a puzzle that no one else ever figured out.

A small group were emerging from the thick fog that surrounded the ship. They wore long shirts that reached their ankles and attractive turbans that Connor had never seen before. Their skin bore an olive sheen while the more brawny passengers were as black as night. In the middle of the muscular bodyguards was a man in his sixties with a fuzzy beard. His robe was more sophisticated with lacquered thread embroidered around the hems. Beside him, a petite form, and the only female, wore a thick plain soft pink robe to the ground. A dense shawl covered her hair and face. The only features of her that were bare were her eyes which were meekly staring at the floor. Even her hands were hidden beneath leather gloves.

The soldiers immediately got off their horses and bowed, Jean-Baptiste slapped Connor's arm to emulate them.

"Greetings, my friends," the old man drawled monotonously with a bow and unusual accent, "I am a noble from the Moroccan court. My name is Ya'coob Al-Alami."

So this was the man who was to prepare Morocco's speech? Connor expected one much younger. He stole a glance at the young woman beside Ya'coob, wondering what her purpose was. Their eyes met in a short moment of time, large brown like a doe of Arabia in symmetry with a Native wolf's sombre darkness. His breath caught in his throat until his lungs burned. He had never seen such long eyelashes that coated deep brown eyes, as brilliant as the soil of his native homeland. How could someone have such soulful eyes? A sharp nudge against his side by Jean-Baptiste shattered his little reverie and he hurriedly returned his attention to Ya'coob.

"The journey to America was necessary ever since our French allies had notified us about your fight for liberty and equality…And perhaps I should also mention fraternity, divinity, autonomy and a better approach on idiosyncratic sovereignty," Ya'coob continued in his lacklustre voice, "Morocco fully supports a free America in their quest for rights…Did I mention liberty?"

The soldiers were hiding grins, their lips curled inwards to prevent themselves from laughing. Connor could not help but sympathise with poor Ya'coob. It was clear that the Moor was showing off his flexibility with the English language but with more exaggeration. His mind drifted back to the woman in the veil. She was staring at the floor, her feelings coveted inside her large eyes. Ya'coob continued his rehearsed greetings until one of the soldiers finally told him that they should head out for breakfast.

"Ah of course! Forgive me, my friends, but I cannot ride a horse," the old Moor confessed, pulling the end of his curly beard apologetically, "My men here may walk but Lady Nezha must not."

"Right away, she may sit with me," Jean-Baptiste responded hastily, clicking his fingers to signal the soldiers to get moving.

"Absolutely not! I do not trust European settlers as much as I trust a snake!" Ya'coob interrupted, crushing the Frenchman's pride as if he was no more than a bug.

Jean-Baptiste and Connor glanced at each other. Ya'coob's sudden outburst was…odd and racist, no doubt. Maybe this was just a cultural ego of the Moors? The young woman, Nezha, remained quiet and immobile in the background. Ya'coob pointed a finger at Connor, who instantly tensed.

"You do not look European. You shall lead Lady Nezha to our destination."

The half-Native opened his mouth to speak but couldn't utter a word. It was the first time a foreigner placed their trust in him apart from George Washington. Even the Negro slaves never trusted the Natives with their affairs.

Jean Baptiste gave him a slight nod to approve of Ya'coob's demand before helping Nezha up on the horse. She sat behind Connor, her legs swung over on one side, her leather boots and thick leggings exposed as she did so. When a small hand held his shoulder, Connor's eyes widened. The spirits roared at him. They were screaming into his ears like a turbulent storm, voices as piercing as an eagle's cry. He restrained the urge to stare at his passenger. He smelt danger despite the heavy scent of musk and jojoba escaping Nezha's form. He couldn't comprehend what the spirits were warning but his heart clarified what he should do: Protect Nezha and Ya'coob.

"Connor! Come on!" Jean-Baptiste yelled ahead of him. Ya'coob was sitting behind the young man contently, his eyes scanning the new faces arrogantly.

Pulling the horse's reins, Connor followed the group of soldiers outside the town. The voices of the spirits died until they were quiet like a gentle stream. They normally remained silent but hollered when they wanted to warn the Assassin.


	3. The Betrayal

**A/N: Thank you so much to those who have reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it. :) This chapter contains some violence so just be warned. Violence is frequent in this story, this is why I have rated it T but let me know if it's too strong then I will change the rating. Or, if you hate violence (which I presume you don't if you're an AC fan!) then you may just skip it. **

**Enjoy!**

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The horses followed a trail outside the town. Jean-Baptiste confirmed that a small feast had been set for the Moors close by. Washington was waiting for them there. The other Moors that were walking on foot were complaining about the frigid snow that reached their knees. They coughed smoky vapour into the air, olive and dark skin altering into a pallid sheen. Ya'coob chatted with his driver in French; the latter's face growing grimmer as their conversation progressed. Now and again, Ya'coob would glance over his shoulder and shout something in Arabic at Nezha who would either nod or shake her head.

Connor didn't converse with Nezha and neither did she attempt to ask him anything. Her strong perfume tickled his nostrils. He forced the urge not to sneeze. The scent was unusual, foreign and elegant. The heavy scent of perfume finally entered his airway until Connor could taste the musk on his tongue. Sniffing inwards, he sneezed vehemently. It occurred in haste, too quick to cover his mouth in politeness. His eyes watered. Another wave of discomfort washed through him, forcing him to sneeze a few more times. He sighed after the moment, his lungs burning from the force like hot metal.

"Alhumdullilah," a voice spoke, as sweet as honey.

"Huh?" He glanced over his shoulder to find Nezha's exotic eyes fixed on him.

"It means 'God bless you'," she said gently.

"Thank you…"

He tried to read her thoughts through her eyes but he found nothing. Her eyes were deep, like the earth and one would have to dig through them to find the jewels of her thoughts. The light of the weak winter sun reflected off them like a mirror, shifting the brown to a lighter chestnut colour.

"Look out!" Instantly, Nezha's hand was on his, and she pulled the reins on the horse that was about to walk through a branch.

Connor gasped, the spirits were howling again at the sudden contact until he was sure the four corners of his mind would collapse with so many voices. When she let go of his hand, the voices dulled away.

"Forgive me, I wasn't paying attention," he whispered.

She shook her head. "I thought Assassins were sharp like the tail of a scorpion. We would have been pushed off the horse because of your carelessness."

Her voice was still dulcet but her words were harsh, like a small but sharp stone that was flung against his chest. He pulled the reins of his horse until it stopped, turning back to stare at her in confusion. She knew more than she should.

"Please, do not fret. You see Ya'coob? He is the leader of the Assassins back in the King's district. We are one of you," she explained, as if reading his mind.

"What?"

Three assassins in one day. Connor was surprised he wasn't feeling any joys of Brotherhood reunion. Neither of his companions, Jean-Baptiste, Nezha or Ya'coob, introduced themselves in an orderly fashion. Then again, the half-Native was still new to the conducts of the Assassins.

"Look back ahead before you land us in anymore trouble," Nezha directed, her tone authoritative, her small hand finding it's place on his shoulder, holding the fabric of his cape firmly.

Connor resisted the urge to roll his eyes and directed the horse to a camp that was a few miles away from the Patriot's town. They didn't exchange anymore words since Ya'coob had been watching them sternly over his shoulder. Footprints left behind in the snow symbolised the passage of time, time was forever ongoing and it was always within the brink of a second that a life was born…Or lost. Connor was aware that Nezha kept turning back at the dents in the snow they left behind, a path that could easily be tracked by any loyalists.

They were greeted by soldiers and a few nuns at the set-up camp. Ya'coob demanded a bath for himself and his Moors despite the sudden blistering wind that was shaking the fragile tents from one place to another. Jean-Baptiste managed to negotiate that the Moors delay their bath since the oracle of independence is imminent and Washington was on his way over. Ya'coob huffed at the Frenchman in anger; nostrils flared at the side of his wide nose and wrinkled eyes narrowed in disdain. The Moors were taken to a tent where warm breakfast was waiting for them. Nezha was taken to another tent with the nuns. As soon as Washington arrived, Connor and Jean-Baptiste were given orders to roam the area for any spies. They will have to miss Ya'coob's speech of independence for a free America.

Connor waited outside Jean-Baptiste's tent, arms folded and senses alert. Sometimes, he would glance at Nezha's tent, wondering how the contours of her face appeared behind the veil. He imagined her face to be small and round like a cherry with eyes that were too large in proportion and hair as dark as a Native woman's. He couldn't help but feel as if her exotic eyes were gazing through the tent at him, burning a hole into the back of his head.

"_Fini!_" Jean-Baptiste declared, stepping out of the tent wearing the infamous Assassin's hood and coat. He fingered the stray flaxen locks of hair that fell into his brilliant green eyes, giving Connor a cheeky grin.

"I look more handsome than you now, don't I?" He teased, placing his hands on his hips and giving them a slight shake.

_I'm surrounded by bizarre people, _Connor ridiculed inwardly.

He ignored the boisterous attempts by the Frenchman and walked ahead. Jean-Baptiste scrambled after him as they strolled away from the camp. The frigid wind combined with a blizzard, whipped at their cheeks, their breath freezing into ice around their chins. The intense shower of snow would have blinded a mediocre man's path had he not been trained for blizzards. The dimples of horse hooves in the white blanket were now hidden. Connor made sure to mark the trees they passed with a triangle in case they were to lose their way.

"Her eyes are so beautiful," a sudden outburst escaped Jean-Baptiste. Connor raised a brow, annoyed that his ally would change their motives. He knew the Frenchman was talking about Nezha.

"Oh _mon Dieu_, if only I could have had one moment to stare at those _eyes_!" Jean Baptiste exclaimed; a hand placed on his chest in a dramatic gesture and face ridden with feigned sorrow.

Walking in that stance, he soon bungled over the thickening layers of snow, falling head first into the icy shroud. He reached a hand towards Connor to help him up but the half-Native deemed it better not to. After all, this was a lesson for the Frenchman not to have his mind distracted while on a mission. Catching his breath in his cheeks in anger, Jean-Baptiste heaved himself out of the cleft his form had created in the snow.

"Do you Natives have any sense of manly hormones? Man, you guys don't even have proper _body hair," _Jean-Baptiste jeered, hoping to provoke his ally but disappointed when it made no impact on Connor.

"Look ahead before you land in anymore trouble," Connor replied with a smirk, remembering Nezha's words earlier.

The Frenchman was now fuming but his anger melted away instantly when they heard the branches nearby rustle. A shadow dispersed on the treetops, blending into the snow storm. Jean-Baptitse had his hand on the pistol strapped around his thigh while Connor reached for his bow and arrow.

A soft thud resounded close by. Connor and Jean-Baptiste leaned back to back, their weapons readied, faces lined with determination. Sweat froze to droplets of ice on their faces. Then they saw the figure emerging out of the darkness of the blizzard, taking the form of bulky arms and legs and a complexion that rivalled the night, eyes as bright grey as a clouded moon. The loose ends of his turban were flailing wildly in the miserable wind; he was definitely one of the Moors. He wore a thick shirt with a lavish opened vest around it and long leather boots over thick trousers. In his hands were two katanas, their handles embroidered with emeralds that twinkled like Jean-Baptiste's eyes. The latter immediately aimed his pistol at the stranger.

"Fear not, I am Khalid. I was sent by Ya'coob to aid you," the man spoke in a voice deeper than thunder as he approached them.

Jean-Baptiste relaxed, returning his pistol into its pouch. Connor still kept his hand on his bow. The air was heavy, whispering an unwonted foreboding. Khalid's grey eyes bore heavily at the two Assassins, as if forcing them to melt into a helpless puddle

"Mon Dieu, man, you couldn't have created a more dramatic entrance. My name is Jean-Baptiste and this is Connor," the Frenchman sighed with relief.

"Hmph," Khalid sniffed, revealing his hidden blade in a sudden movement.

Connor was quick to roll out of the way but Jean-Baptiste was not as responsive, the blade scratched his side as he jumped backwards. Jean-Baptiste let out a slight yelp, glaring at the intruder. Khalid attempted to finish what he started. He swung ferociously at Jean-Baptiste, the latter using his hidden blade at each arm to shield himself. Sparks erupted when the metals clashed with each other. Khalid, with his tall and muscular stature proved to be the stronger man. He kicked the Frenchman in the knee, sending him toppling over the snow.

Wasting no time, Connor ran up the trunk of a tree and perched onto the closest branch, he stretched the string of his bow and took aim at the dual between the two men below. Khalid was running towards Jean-Baptiste, like a predator to its prey. He jumped into the air, katanas held high to pierce into the Assassin's skull. Before the impingement of oncoming doom, Connor let go of his arrow and it flew at Khalid, striking into one of his biceps. The Moor grunted in pain, one of his swords slipped from his hand. Connor watched as Jean-Baptiste kicked snow into Khalid's eyes, temporarily stunning the dark man and giving the Frenchman a moment to regain his balance. Adrenaline rushed through the half-Native's body and his heart pounded against his chest.

Taking the upper hand of the match, Connor flew from his position, like an eagle from its nest, towards Khalid. His hidden blade was readied for the kill and he landed on the Moor with tremendous force, blade meeting the shoulder of his uninjured arm. The Moor yelled in pain, writhing beneath him, his grey eyes widened with defeat. Connor dispensed his blade from its attachment, pressing it against Khalid's dark skin.

"Speak now, who sent you here?" Jean-Baptiste demanded in a threatening tone that belied his usual lively personality.

"Never," Khalid mumbled but gasped when Connor drove his dagger a little bit deeper onto the sensitive flesh, making sure to cut it slightly.

"Tell us!" the half-Native urged.

Khalid closed his eyes, his heavy breathing evident under Connor's knees. His grey orbs faced the Assassin's again; a cruel smirk crossed his full lips.

"I would rather die," the Moor hissed before spitting into Connor's face, taking the latter by surprise.

A sudden flash of white blinded him. He rolled back into the snow rubbing his eyes, his brain too slow to register what was happening. A sharp object struck him in the waist, warm blood stained his clothes. He felt Khalid's body slip away, an unknown man's voice yelled from the treetops. When the flash bomb cleared away, Connor found Jean-Baptiste lying in the snow, blood pouring from his chest.

"Jean!" he knelt beside the Frenchman, terror gripping him until his lungs squeezed the breath in his chest. He pressed his hand on Jean-Baptiste's wound, hoping to stop the flow of blood, his own injury left him unabashed.

"Connor…Y-Ya'coob is a traitor…He's a Templar in disguise. Get back to the camp and let George Washington know," Jean-Baptiste stuttered, his clear green eyes moist from the pain, imploring for salvation.

Connor gritted his teeth. He has seen many men die and he was tired of it. This was a cowardly attack made by Ya'coob. He was sure that Nezha and the Moor advisors were unaware of Ya'coob's plans. He must have been in contact with one of the Templar loyalists here, despite Morocco's support for the American rebels.

"I can't leave you here," Connor stated.

Jean-Baptiste slapped his arm feebly. "He'll kill Washington if you don't."

"But…" The half-Native paused.

It wasn't right to leave a fellow Assassin to die out in the cold but Jean-Baptiste was right. The others at the camp were oblivious to the strength of Ya'coob's bodyguards. They were well equipped with ammunition as well as traps. It was sneaky like a snake that poisoned their prey before eating them.

"I'll be back with help," Connor assured before running back towards the camp. He didn't dare look back lest he change his mind. From the time that passed, Ya'coob must have finished the speech prepared by the Moroccan king.

Connor swallowed painfully, his side throbbing as if a molten hammer was striking him there incessantly and flecks of crimson dripped onto the pure white snow.

What if he was too late to save the others?


	4. The Doe in the Wilderness

The way back to camp was clearing up as the blizzard storm came to an end. Dark grey clouds swirled in the skies above, threatening the onset of another squall. Branches cried blankets of snow upon him as Connor ran across the blinding white landscape. The smell of fire and soot infiltrated his nostrils. Staggering due to the wound on his side, he picked up pace, mentally ignoring the piercing pain that throbbed.

Flames loomed in his view as he edged closer to the location of the Moors. Tents were set ablaze and the ground was littered with bodies of the Moor advisors and a couple of soldiers in blue uniform. Connor held his breath, eyes searching for pink shawls among the corpses. His breath hitched in his lungs, refusing to give him relief and the pain in his side intensified until it felt like hot needles were penetrating deep into his flesh. He walked among the bodies to search for any signs of survivors. Faces were contorted in pain or horror, an eternal expression that would follow them to the grave. There were no signs of the dark bodyguards or Ya'coob. Nuns donned in white were lugubrious over the dead.

"Where is Lady Nezha?" Connor asked one of the stooping nuns.

Her back was hunched in sorrow and her face was red from sobbing. When she didn't respond, he repeated his question but the nun was lost in total oblivion, unaware of her surroundings. The ruckus of voices close by answered him. Connor headed towards the source. He finally found the woman he was searching for. She was held at both sides by two wounded soldiers. A third man had a gun pointed at her. In the far corner, Washington peered at the dark horizon, his mouth straight in a taut, grim line and moisture gleamed in his eyes.

"Please, listen to me! I swear to you I was unaware of this!" Nezha screamed, large brown eyes captivated with trepidation, "You may kill me if you want but please, I swear that Ya'coob is innocent. He is in danger! You must save him!"

"Shut it, carrion!" one of the soldiers yelled, throwing her to the ground. He held the cloths of pink that donned her body, ready to tear them apart.

"Stop!" Connor exclaimed. He ran at the soldier, tackling him to the ground.

Once the man was out of the way, the Assassin lifted Nezha to her feet and kept her behind him, shielding her from the prying glare of the soldier. Glancing over his shoulder, his dark eyes met the rich brown of hers and he sensed consternation emanating from those deep chasms. This is what the unity of the Brotherhood felt like, he felt as if she was family and he knew he should put her needs before the Patriots. His war was not with the revolutionaries. His war was against the Templars only.

"Connor, what are you doing?" Washington gasped, approaching them with his hands behind his back, "She could be an enemy. We cannot trust her after what her bodyguards have done."

"I trust her," the half-Native said with confidence. His hand unknowingly found Nezha's small one and held her fingers tightly, assuring her that an Assassin would never abandon a member of the Creed.

Washington's eyes were glazed with sadness. "You have done so much for us, Connor that I cannot punish you. Leave now as I cannot stop the emotions of my men towards her. Her husband is a traitor. She might be too and this could cost your Creed great debt."

Wasting no more time, Connor left the burning camp, Nezha trailing after him. She was barely able to keep up with him, her voice like a far off echo in his ears. Then he heard a gunshot. The men who had been restraining Nezha back at the camp were after them, snipers in their arms. They were faster and the three later surrounded the two Assassins from all corners.

"Take out your hidden blade and get the man who is at your right. I will take care of the other two," Connor whispered to the young woman.

In a sudden reflex, he removed his tomahawk, throwing it at the nearest guard, ignoring the muffled screams and the rush of arterial blood on his face. The next soldier yelped in horror before stumbling back into the snow. His face met the bullet of Connor's shotgun, denting into his forehead, eyes streaming with crimson tears.

The half-Native sighed in relief. Guilt consumed him at killing two of Washington's men but he had to protect Nezha. Now, his next mission was to find Ya'coob with his pack of goons and finish them. A scream erupted in the air.

"What?" he huffed in surprise, seeing Nezha crouched behind a tree and the soldier she was meant to get rid of, pointing his sniper at her shivering form. Gritting his teeth in anger, Connor finished the soldier with his hidden blade. He turned to Nezha, who was crying, and grabbed her shoulders.

"Why didn't you kill him?" he demanded, shaking her slightly.

The kohl around her large eyes was sagging down like dark rain, mingling with her tears. She pushed him away, wiping her eyes with the hem of her sleeve and crying louder until her voice reverberated in the woods. On instinct, Connor pressed his hand over the fabric that hid Nezha's nose and mouth.

"Hush! They'll hear you," he hissed but she slipped from his grip, staggering around the bark of the tree like a blind person.

"Are you truly an Assassin?" Connor asked dryly.

"Yes!" she screamed before falling on her knees and letting her forehead lean against the tree, "I was born into the Creed because of my father but…I do not have the heart to end a life. I cannot do it! Understand? I cannot!"

Her voice rose in crescendo and her hands were flailing about like a mad person, eyes bloodshot with fear and terror. "The Assassins are so cold hearted! They do not realise that killing innocent people is wrong. They kill whomsoever they wish if said person was to impede their plans. I cannot kill anyone. I am a failure to call myself an Assassin! I am a failure! I did not wish for this life!"

Connor was truly taken aback. He had not expected the woman to pour her heart out to him, especially at this moment when they should be hiding from Ya'coob and his bodyguards. On instinct, he grabbed her frail, petite body into his arms and squeezed her close until the rapid thumping of her heart was audible.

"Hush…" he murmured, hoping in some way to alleviate her possessed state. She calmed in his embrace, her cries diminishing to sobs. When the air was placid once again, she spoke softly into his chest.

"Ya'coob is innocent. He may be forty years older than me, but he is my husband and I trust him."

A pang at his heart forced him to forget breathing for a moment. He stared at her head that reached his chest. She appeared to be only twenty but she was married? Why did that bother him so much? How could her parents allow that? He prepared himself for a confession.

"Please Connor, Ya'coob suffered a lot in his life. He loved his first wife and she bore him three beautiful children. After her death, he wasn't able to move on. His oldest son is the same age as you and we were supposed to get married. My father wanted someone to look after Ya'coob in his old age despite that he was nearly sixty and forty years older… I was forced to get married to him. He told me at our wedding night that he will never love me. Our marriage was never consummated but he was kind to me. He understood that I hated war and he allowed me to avoid training sessions. You must help him Connor. I swear he is innocent…"

"I…"

What should he say? Nezha was still a child. She was five years younger than him so how could she understand what was good and what was evil? She lived a sheltered life while his life was worse than the dark flames of hell. She had people that, despite being selfish, still cared for her while he had to forget that the blood of the Templars surged through his veins.

"Nezha, let us get you to Boston first to keep you safe and then we shall find Ya'coob. You must learn to trust the Creed more openly and look out for any spies. If Ya'coob is a spy then we have no choice but to eliminate him."

Her eyes darkened after his reply and she snaked away from his grip, her hand accidentally whacking the wound at his side, reigniting the pain. "How can he be a spy? He served the Assassins for over forty years!"

Groaning, Connor reached for his side, kneeling down. Nezha's hostile tone changed back to one with fear. She knelt beside him, hands shaking with terror.

"Connor, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Ugh…" The pain swirled inside him, mingling all the colours his eyes reflected. He felt his body slamming into the cold, snowy ground. He gazed at the dancing colours that swarmed his vision and sent dizzy spells into his head. The colours slowly flitted away to darkness.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**30****th**** December 1777. Boston city.**

His conscious swooned, gentle waves of nausea washed over his body. Bile threatened to rise past his throat. His eyes fluttered open, taking in the dark surroundings of an empty room.

"Nezha!"

Connor sat up immediately but regretted doing so as it instigated a sharp pain in his head. Groaning, he rubbed his dark hair, noticing that his hood and shirt were in the corner of the room and a clean bandage was wrapped around his abdomen. Whispers hustled close by. Footsteps resounded off wooden floors and a figure emerged out of the darkness.

Connor narrowed his eyes, adjusting to the little light that the room provided. The figure moved to the curtains and pulled them apart slightly to allow the intermittent sunlight slip through the window. A familiar face glanced back at him, grinning widely and eyes a peridot colour. Unruly blond hair fell into his eyes. He was young, no more than a man in his late teens.

"Jean?"

A frown crossed over the boy's face.

"I'm far from that worthless man," he skulked, his sculpted face showing a boyish roundness to it. His arms crossed over his shirt and Connor realised the Assassin's cape draped around the boy's body.

"My mistake, you look very similar to him."

"Well of course! He's my damned brother. I had the misfortune to look like him! Darn that man."

"You do not appear to take your brother to a liking."

"Let's just say that he likes to steal the limelight. Anyways, how're you feeling? We found you dying in the woods," the boy uttered, his face switching to that of concern as he treaded to Connor and sat on the edge of his bed.

"We? Is Nezha with you?" Connor asked, attempting to get out of bed but the boy pushed him back down.

"Rest Connor, you had a fever from too much blood loss and a nasty infection. No worries, Jake had it taken care of," the boy assured, fingering the burnished locks that fell into his eyes.

"And Nezha?" Connor demanded. He wanted to make sure that she was safe. The memories of that day slowly flooded back to him. He remembered holding her frightened body into his arms as she wept like a frightened deer.

"Is Nezha the Arabic lady who was with you? I think she's left with another group of Assassins. They might be somewhere in the city or they could have left Boston entirely. Why?" The boy stopped fidgeting with his hair. Green eyes widened with curiosity.

"It's nothing," Connor muttered and attempted to get out of bed again only to be beaten back to a lying position.

"Listen man, if you wish to go and fight-"

"Yes I do!" the half-Native growled, "There are Templars out there who are feigning to be Assassins! There's no time to waste."

"Whoa, _monsieur_, I get it. Get changed and I'll meet you outside." The boy stood up and strolled to the door. He spun around dramatically before saying, "Sorry I never introduced myself. I'm Eric!"

Connor ignored him. He fetched his shirt and Assassin's hood and threw it on. His Mohawk jewellery was also kept on the same table. He grabbed his necklace made of a bear's claws and an earring that consisted of beads and a large feather of an eagle. Luckily, a few slices of bread were left on the spindly table in the room, enough to end his hunger and water to quench his thirst. He ran out of the house, the chilly morning air greeted him. The paths were covered in hissing ice and people were using shovels to scrape hardened snow that surrounded their doorsteps. The slates on the rooves were rimy, glittering when the sunlight caressed them. The streets were quieter ever since the revolutionary war had reached its pinnacle.

He was greeted by Eric who was accompanied with a middle aged man that scrubbed his auburn beard under his hood. The bearded man introduced himself as Jack, an Irish Assassin who had migrated from Ireland a long time ago. He recalled his homeland with sentimental sadness; the pubs, the fields of green and buttercup yellow, the friendly people. Before he continued his nostalgic stories, Eric suggested that they discuss their next mission in a quiet voice.

"Jean-Baptiste has given us some information on the Templars that arrived from Morocco. From all the data we've collected, we've found out that they are not originally Moroccan but Nigerian men who disguised their names with Arabic ones. We think Khalid might be their leader. The names of the other three, according to an Assassin who travelled with them are Lateef, Adam and Yahya but they might be using Christian pseudonyms right now."

"If I may," Connor interrupted, clearing his throat, "I am certain that some of these men might be disguised as Negro slaves."

"Excellent mind yeh have there, me lad! Our spies have tracked down unusual activity in a Templar controlled region of Boston at the East side. We think Lateef is disguised as a slave of a rich family there," Jack included, raising a finger to emphasise his point.

"Apparently, three of our novices within that area are reported missing. This adds to our suspicions of Lateef's whereabouts," Eric stated, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "This is the mission we have been assigned. To investigate this particular area and look for Lateef."

"How are you sure which men we are to follow? They are much like the Negros. I would not want any civilians killed in their place," Connor implied.

"Each men; according to the sailor, has distinct features. Khalid, as you and Jean have seen, has grey eyes. Lateef has a prominent scar across his face. Adam is tall, _abnormally_ tall and Yahya wears a cherished gold chain with the Templar insignia," Eric explained. He received a harsh slap on the back by Jack who grinned jovially and called the boy intellectual.

"You've been doing your research well," Connor smirked. A tinge of pink danced across Eric's features.

"I am not used to compliments," he chuckled, running his hand through his hair.

"Lads, let's get going. Remember, blend with the crowd!" Jack said, running ahead before disappearing into the morning fog.

Eric and Connor placed their hoods back over their heads.

"Eric? How is Jean-Baptiste?"

"Recovering somewhere, he was lucky a wandering Assassin found him. Otherwise he would have been dead," Eric muttered, eyes darkening with ambivalence.

Connor nodded, slightly relieved to hear that. He followed Eric through the mist wondering where Nezha could be in this large colonial city. He didn't know why she plagued his thoughts but he silently hoped that she was safe.


End file.
